


Shuttle Fever

by theblogontheedgeofforever



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, Eventual James T. Kirk/Spock, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Star Trek (2009), Slow Burn, Smoking, Space Husbands, Suicidal Thoughts, T'hy'la, Tarsus IV, Transporter Malfunction, Whump, k/s - Freeform, spirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-07-08 12:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblogontheedgeofforever/pseuds/theblogontheedgeofforever
Summary: The USS Enterprise intercepts a distress call from a small scientific vessel in the Rigel system. Upon investigation not everything is as it seem.





	1. Infernum - Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted at https://the-blog-on-the-edge-of-forever.tumblr.com

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew follow a mayday call. Are they chasing ghosts?

The bridge was quiet save for the gentle hum of the warp core and intermittent beeps from the various consoles on deck. Current orders from the admiralty were simple; survey the system and report back to Starfleet. A milk run. Not every mission could be a first contact, not even for the federation flagship. Alpha shift, which had been spectacularly uneventful, was almost over. Just ten more minutes…

“Captain, I’ve intercepted a distress call from a nova class federation vessel orbiting Rigel X,” Uhura announced. Eyebrows furrowed, Jim contemplated this for a moment before giving his order, the admiralty were known for giving out vague orders with ulterior motives. So maybe this wasn't a milk run after all. Jim sat straight in his chair and drew in a semi-deep breath. Survey and report, huh? The possible false pretence of the mission parameters set Jim on edge, he was nothing if not naturally cynical of authority. Especially so of the admiralty since Pike had been forced to take an indefinite leave of absence after his ordeal on the Narada.

“Sulu, approach with thrusters only, Chekov plot us an emergency course away incase this is a trap,” he instructed.

“Aye, Captain,” they chorused, gradually the tiny blob of spacecraft came into focus until the small scientific research vessel was hailing in range. It wasn't unusual for a federation vessel to be in the Rigel system but the image the screen projected certainly was cause for alarm. The clinical, sterile white light that should have been pouring out of the windows was replaced by an angry pulsating red, screaming DANGER! DANGER! The rest of the ship was dark, the engines were offline, the port hull breached with a steady flow of particulates and small debris becoming suspended in the weak gravity fields being generated around the ship.

“Spock, scan for life signs and any indication of what might have happened here.”

“Two life signatures, no unusual preliminary readings, sir,” he responded in his unwavering Vulcan vernacular, but there was something in his expression that conveyed his skepticism about the accuracy of the data in-front of him.

“Skeleton crew?”

“Unlikely, the statistical likelihood of a vessel of that size, which has a standard crew complement of seventy eight personnel, operating with only two crew members is seven-point-six-two percent,”

“Acknowledged, Uhura, can you hail them?” Jim asked, twisting his torso to look at her. She bobbed her head once, breaking eye contact to tap her console, the tension visible in her shoulders. 

“No answer sir, but they are broadcasting on all federation frequencies,” she informed.

“Pull it up,” he commanded, then a flickering image appeared on the screen. Only slight hindered by the static, a young Terran woman sat in the captains chair peering into the camera with a visage obscured by a respirator strapped around her mouth.

“This is Acting Captain Kara Bennett of the _USS Infernum_ , if you are receiving this message it means I was unable to terminate this broadcast… it means I am dead.” she scrubbed a hand over her face, “Three days ago Captain T’El lead a scientific reconnaissance mission down to a research facility on the surface of Rigel X, when they returned with the data is when everything went to shit, half the crew were dead in a matter of hours.”

Spock began to double check his data as Kara continued to relay the story of the demise of her crew. 

“Slowly the rest of the crew, who had been confined to their quarters per quarantine protocols must have already been exposed as I am the only remaining crew member of the _Infernum_ , all that’s left here is death, I can only suggest you set this graveyard on a collision course with the nearest star to prevent whatever happened here from spreading, over and out,” she finished dejectedly. The transmission cut out and began again before Uhura pulled it from the screen.

“Spock, I will assemble a landing party, meet me in the transporter room,” Jim informed his First.

“Captain, as we have little data on the situation aboard the vessel it is unadvisable to—” Spock began, burning caramel meeting electric blue, only to be interrupted.

“We’ll use the containment suits, I’ll get Bones, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled with this…”

Once in the turbo lift Jim took a minute to compose himself, he couldn't quite get the image of Spock out of his mind, the edge of fear in his eyes and the increased rigidness in the set of his shoulders. He trusted Spock, sometimes more than he trusted himself, but he had to act on this instinct. He had to see the _Infernum_ with his own eyes. 

In medbay Bones was tinkering with the climate controls on an occupied biobed, muttering something about ‘stupid fevers’ and ‘antipyretics’. He wasn't going to take the news well.  
“Bones I need you on a landing party, we’re leaving now, get any gear you’ll need to do an autopsy,” he stated as blandly as possible to try and make the situation seem a little more routine. Not that Bones didn't see right through his façade. 

“Good lord, I’m a doctor not a coroner,” Bones exclaimed, his southern drawl more pronounced in his shock. He stormed across the room before digging around in a cupboard for a field medical kit. 

Jim stood awkwardly in the centre of the room, blue eyes staring at an imperfection in the flooring, waiting for him to continue but when no more came he added sheepishly, “We’re going to need to isolate everyone coming back from the mission for decontamination…”

“Of course we are… where exactly are we going Jim?”

“Spock will explain in the transporter room, I need to get the rest of the team together,” he answered over his shoulder, halfway out of the room. As he walked down the corridor he could hear McCoy telling M’Benga to set up all the quarantine rooms in customary exasperation. 

Gaila was less resistant to recruit than Bones once Jim explained that the _Infernum’s_ mission was data collection and that it had subsequently lead to such baffling and catastrophic consequences. She was undoubtably curious.

“Of course Captain, I’ll head down to the transporter room right now,” she agreed with her customary wide grin and bright eyes which oozed with her inextinguishable high spirits. 

Scotty was a little surprised to be on the away team, but agreed nonetheless, Jim’s reasoning for drafting him was that he needed some forensic work done on the vessels systems to determine if the crews deaths were due to life support failure, and indeed if there was evidence of foul play.

Other than Spock, Bones, Gaila and Scotty, Jim gathered a small security detail of three including Lieutenant Hendorff. Spock had briefed everyone on the specifics of their excursion. They convened on the transporter pads, geared up and ready to beam to aboard what was hopefully not a trap. Atmosphere thick with apprehension.

The first officer turned to the Captain and hiked up an eyebrow that roughly translated to ‘It’s not too late to back out now’ or more precisely ‘the parameters of our assignment are sketchy at best, it would be expedient to contact Starfleet Headquarters and await orders’. But just as Kirk could read Spock like a book, Spock knew Kirk would quirk an eyebrow in return in the affectionate mockery he had come to know as teasing.

“Energize,” he instructed, then the familiar lurid lights appeared accompanied by the sensation of being separated and reattached at the molecular level.

An ominous crimson glow permeated the atmosphere with trepidation. It set the team on edge. The whining siren in the background seemed disproportionately intense compared to the emptiness of the room they arrived in, an empty cargo hold. Most of the circuitry was hanging from the ceiling like vines. It was hard to navigate. Like a mechanised jungle. The team traded glances at each other. The interior of the ship was most certainly not Starfleet standard, many of the walls were replaced my large panels of reinforced glass. What should have been pristine white was raw silver, clinical in a macabre late 20th century sort of way.

“Okay team this is our rendezvous point, everyone needs to be back here within the hour,” Jim announced, this was all it took for the team to dissipate, each member taking one of the security detail except the captain and first officer. 

Spock turned to face Jim, “I assume I am not here to collect samples, as you have brought Dr. McCoy,” he deduced.

“Sharp as ever,” Jim smiled in earnest at how close they had become since the their turbulent maiden voyage. The truth is, Jim couldn't imagine going on a mission without Spock. Not having him at his side felt strange. Foreign. Lonely. He couldn't deny there was some degree of magnetism between them, and Jim felt perpetually tangled in Spock's field lines, “I, uh, sort of just wanted to explore the ship for evidence of tampering,”

Spock’s only response was a curt nod. According to the schematic of this ship, the jefferies tube directly above them above them was the most direct route to the ships bridge. Using a swivel desk chair as leverage they climbed into the tube, shuffling along in silence. Kicking out the ventilation grid underneath them was easy enough and they dropped in to corridor adjacent to the bridge. 

There, splayed against the captain’s chair was Kara, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, mask still attached to her face. Spock lifted a tricorder up to her side, causing it to emit a few high pitched sounds.

Kara’s eyes flung open, hands around the first officers neck and with as much momentum as her frame would permit she pushed him on to his back, starring straight in to his perspex visor, “Who are you?”

Spock, who was at least three times stronger than Kara allowed her the moment of control and dominance, “I am Commander Spock of the _USS Enterprise_ ,” he said evenly.

“You’re with Starfleet?” she said incredulously, a little taken aback, she relented her hold on Spock. Once both were vertical her gaze flickered to Jim, and then to the insignia on his chest, “did you not get the transmission?”

“We got your transmission but our scans showed two life signs,” he relayed tentatively, “do you know where the oth—” Jim’s communicator beeped loudly. He flipped it open and and pressed the button so that the message would be played through the speakers in his helmet.

“McCoy to Kirk, I’ve found one of the life signs, he's in pretty rough shape, do we have permission to beam him directly to quarantine room one? Over,” Bone’s voice reverberated in his headspace.

“Go ahead, we’re with the other life sign, Captain Bennett, preparing to make our way back to the rendezvous, Kirk out.”

He turned to Spock, “Comm the others, tell them to head back to the rendezvous early,”

“Yes, sir,” he responded. Kara stacked two equipment crates as a make shift step to climb back into the jefferies tube. She took point and Spock was to flank. Jim pulled himself up quickly — he heard a tremendous snapping sound. Then a hiss. Dread flooded every fibre of his being. Upon closer inspection his oxygen cable was wiping wildly behind him. He dropped back down in to the corridor, not yet allowing himself to breath the potentially hazardous air. His lungs burned. Watering eyes trying to convey his unadulterated panic to Spock.

“Jim!” he gasped, eyes fractionally wider, “keep holding your breath,”

He flipped open his communicator lightning fast, patching it through to his helmet just the same, “Spock to _Enterprise_ , two to beam straight to quarantine room two,” immediately they were bathed in the bright transporter beams.

In the quarantine room, Spock worked quickly to detached Jim's helmet all the while Jim shook uncontrollably as he channelled all of his will power into not breathing.

A stray thought made its way in to the forefront of Spock consciousness _I will not let you die t’hy'la._


	2. In Vitro - In Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the mission to the Infernum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I have added the Implied/Reference Rape/Non-con tag as there is a brief flash back to the aftermath of such an event for a main character, everything mentioned is implicit, please do not read if this potentially triggering for you, I will add three asterisks at the beginning and end of this section so that you can skip it if you want.

Bones rushed through the airlock, secure in his containment suit. The sight in front of him chilling his blood so thoroughly it felt like tiny ice crystals were forming in his veins. A strangled choking sound caught in his throat, Jim. The steady buzzing of adrenaline overcame him as he exploded into action. Ripping an oxygen mask off of the crash cart he forced it over the Captains face in a tight seal. Immediately Jim inhaled deeply, making the stinging agony of his chest flare. Fresh hot tears of relief trailed down Jim’s face, glazing his flushed skin.

“What the hell happened Spock!” he barked, his usual disapproving tone buried deep under his panic. Throughout the ordeal Spock hadn’t moved an inch since removing his Captains helmet, frozen in the terror of his realization. With a startling crash, the helmet tumbled from his hands, “Spock! Talk to me!”

“Please excuse me, Dr. McCoy,” he mumbled, barely audible, as he swiftly stood and paced towards the airlock and into the adjoining medbay. The display might have been a bit more dramatic had he not needed to decontaminate in the process. A vaguely dazed expression plastered itself across his normally passive face.

Turning his attention down to Jim, Bones frowned, deep fissure-like creases forming between his brows. At this point Bones was convinced his best friend was actually three disasters stacked up on top of each dressed in a trench coat, or in this case a command gold tunic.

“Jim I need you to hold the mask still while I start the decontamination cycle,” he ordered, the authoritative tone wavering towards the end. Jim wordlessly complied.

After several minutes the whirring of the turbines in the filtration system stopped. Bones nudged Jim’s arm slightly to signal that the air was clean to breath. Each successive breath the Captain took was increasingly tame.

“Are you hurt?” Bones questioned with a softness Jim didn’t often see. In fact he could only pin point one occasion the doctor had so blatantly exposed the more tender aspects of his personality. It had been during their second year at the academy. Jim had just arrived back at their shared dorm after a date with Gary Mitchell…

***

_Jim tried to ring the doorbell, stabbing his finger at the panel several times before he hit the right button. He didn’t want to wake Bones but he had no choice; not unless he wanted to sleep in the corridor. At some point in the evening his keycard had fallen out of his pocket. When the door swung open Bones’ temper was evident in his stance, unbridled irritation etched in the deliberate wide set of his frame._

_“Dammit Jim it’s nearly fou— Oh God,” he stalled himself as he took in Jim’s appearance. His gaze was a peculiar cross between vacant and strained. His wrists and neck were in the early stages of bruising—the angry pink shades were a stark contrast to his sickly pale complexion. His shoes and belt were missing… it took Bones mere moments to understand what had happened._

_“I-I, I lost my key,” Jim stuttered, not yet looking his friend in the eye, it’s not like he’d be able to focus his blurred gaze anyway. Whatever Gary had slipped him had really done a number on him. He slipped past Bones, careful not to touch him, and into their cosy studio. Bones didn’t try to stop him as he made a beeline for the bathroom. Instead he put a blanket in the dryer to warm it up and started boiling some water for tea (although he really could have done with a stiff drink at this point, he knew there would be plenty of that later)._

_When Jim finally emerged out of the bathroom and in to the kitchenette he was wearing nothing but a pair of sweat pants. His crimson and raw skin on display. Bones draped the blanket over his shoulders and wrapped his shaking fingers around the mug of chai. Gently he guided Jim towards the sofa, then perched on the floor at his side. Jim starred into the swirling tea, failing to converge the two images before him into a coherent one._

_They sat like that for well over an hour. Like an old TV set in a storm Jim’s mind was filled with wild static building up to a crescendo of soundless tears…_

***

“No, I’m fine Bones,” he whispered, looking more than a little shaken up, trying to banish the agonising memories from his thoughts. The CMO couldn’t muster more than a nod as he fussed with the rooms monitors, “just a little out of brea— oh fuck! We just left Captain Bennett in that vent…”

Jim hastily propped himself up on his elbows, and then onto his knees, until in one fluid motion he was on his feet and bounding towards the exit. He only made it three paces before Bones grabbed his shoulder, his grip not quite enough to rival a Vulcan nerve pinch, “Where do y’think you’re going?”

“I need to make sure Kar—”

“I have no God damn idea what you’ve been exposed to out there!” Bones exclaimed gesticulating wildly in the general direction of the Infernum.

“But I didn’t breath any of th—”

“If Spock were here he would reel off a bunch of fucking numbers and cite the damned regulations, but all I know is that there is still a chance that you’ve contracted somethin’. I need you in isolated observation for at least the next 24 hours before I can even think about discharging you… that’s not even accounting for your immune system!”

“Wha—”

“Jim, I know you don’t like to feel trapped,” he sighed, alluding to the mishap a couple months previous, when Jim and himself became trapped in the turbolift during an ion storm. The doctor had to knock him out when he couldn’t stop his erratic breathing and futile clawing at the lift car, “but you need to trust me on this, not just as CMO but as your friend.”

If Spock was emotionally compromised after the destruction of _T’Khasi_ , he was positively hysterical now. _How had he been so blind?_

After leaving his Captain in Bones’ care he had rushed to seal himself away. To let decades of Vulcan discipline shatter in the privacy of his quarters. Although Spock would normally elect to meditate, Surak’s teachings were failing him. So with that prospect abandoned Spock laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling as if the smooth surface would reveal to him the secrets of the universe… Or at the very least what to do next.

Spock’s perspective of interpersonal relationships had been distorted by the prism of Vulcan sensibility, but his new found understanding had removed this veil of naivety. The events of the last year all began to click into place. Tiny pieces of the universe’s cruelest mosaic all coming together to mock his obliviousness.

Their schedules permitted them to spend a lot of their free time mutually, and since it was only logical that the Captain and the First Officer get along, Spock instigated several ‘bonding’ activities. Regular chess games that Spock would purposefully prolong. Heated sparring matches that inevitably ended with Spock atop Jim. The dozen candlelit dinners in Spock’s quarters.

He remained in his turmoil for what felt like an eternity before resolving himself to do something aside from this torturous introspection. Under such circumstances he would normally initiate a video-conference with his Mother, but seeing as that was not a possibility he settled for the next best thing…

If there was one undisputed fact about James Tiberius Kirk, it was that he was a creature of action. He didn’t like to be still, it made him feel antsy. _Caged_.

Jim had negotiated the cramped vents of the _Infernum_ , so he could manage quarantine room 2. _Right?_

“Hey Jim, do you want me to break you out?” Gaila offered upon seeing his pitiful predicament. She had this wonderful habit of turning up just when Jim needed her. Practically the very foundation of their friendship.

“Don’t tempt me Lieutenant Vro!” he mock scalded, but Gaila knew Jim well enough to know that he would never seriously pull rank with her. On duty, sure, she would call him Sir or Captain, but that didn’t stop it feeling stiff and formal, “Did you just come to taunt me?”

“Of course not, I wanted to make sure you were alright. When I heard you had to be beamed straight here I was worried,” she confessed, crouching down to sit criss-cross applesauce and leaned her head against the glass, squishing her vibrant curls in the process, “how are you doing?”

“Bored… I’m going stir crazy, Bones won’t bring me a PADD cause I’m technically on medical leave,” he sulked.

“I’m going to replicate you a snack.”

“I can replicate food myself, y’know,” but Gaila was already up and programming the machine.

“But you haven’t,” she observed giving him a knowing, that gave away more of what she was thinking than she probably intended to. A drink materialized on the tray; she sipped it nonchalantly awaiting Jim to give in.

“Fine…” he relented, preparing to deliver an ultimatum.

Spock wrestled with himself outside of Uhura’s quarters. Nyota had always been an emotional anchor for him, even after he terminated their romantic engagement. But since navigating the complexities of relationships wasn’t his forte, he wasn’t entirely certain she would be willing to help him with anything not strictly platonic. He did his best to restore his immaculate Vulcan composure, and for one singular purpose the warring Human and Vulcan sides of Spock’s consciousness were allied. Logic _and_ emotion both seemed to agree that he belonged at Jim’s side. Parted from him and never parted, never and always touching and touched.

Just as he was about to press the keypad to the right of the entrance, he heard a distinct and familiar laugh emanating from the adjacent hallway. _Nyota._

“—an thas when I said, ‘Lass that insae scitch, thas _bourbon_!’” Scotty delivered a punchline to a joke Spock suspected he wouldn’t have understood even if he’d been privy to the beginning of it. He didn’t want to stick around to eavesdrop on the couple, even less unload something so deeply personal with the scotsman as an audience. He stalked away. Not entirely certain of his destination.

He couldn’t bring himself to be surprised that his distracted retreat had lead him directly to the medbay. Spock had long since discovered his internal compass pointed Jim instead of north. Not that he minded.

Gaila was still programming the replicator nearer the back of the room. She hummed as she worked, a lilting melody of an Orion lullaby delivered with a reverence nothing short of devotion. The Captain’s dejected frame was slumped up against the glass, listening to Gaila’s accidental performance with his eyes closed.

Resentful of disturbing the pair, but with a new found resolve, Spock announced his arrival, “Captain.”

“It’s Jim, I’m off duty… and in quarantine, so less of the formality,” Jim waved him off to physically break down the invisible barriers bureaucracy had built between them. This drew Spock’s attention to the smouldering object balanced in his fingers. Jim lowered his hand under the scrutiny of the Vulcans gaze. His compromise with Gaila meant he would let her prepare him some healthy fare if she unlocked the cigarette synthesizing code on his replicator. She was reluctant but agreed nonetheless.

“Has Doctor McCoy specified the duration of your isolation?”

“I’ve got…” he began, making a show of pulling up a sleeve to reveal his bare arm, “…a 24 hour sentence.”

“I see,” he noted. It was obvious to Spock that Gaila’s visit wasn’t professional as she wasn’t in her uniform. Even to an outsider there was an unmistakable tie that linked the pair together, something running deeper than rank or orders, “Miss Vro, would you allow myself and Jim a mo—”

Just then Hendorff came barrelling in to the medbay, halting himself at the threshold. If Spock were the gambling type he would have bet all of his credits that the phaser the Lieutenant wielded was set to kill. Disheveled and desperate, a thin band of sweat had gathered at the security officer’s hairline. His unoccupied hand found itself wrapped around the door frame for balance, but otherwise his demeanour was overwhelmingly predatory. He panted in beat with the rhythm of his darting vision.

“Lieutenant Hendorff, are you well?” Spock inquired, curiosity bleeding in to the slight tilt of his head.

As Hendorff hadn’t yet acknowledged her, Gaila crouched behind a biobed to conceal herself. Spock’s sensitive hearing picked up on the hushed words she spoke into her communicator.

“Get away from the Captain y-you traitor!” Hendorff spat at the commander venomously. In a lightning fast strike to Spock’s knee, the Lieutenant used his weight to invert the joint a few degrees, but lacked the balance to force his opponent to the ground. Jim furiously typed his Captains override into the access panel. Which rather unceremoniously denied his request, keeping him a witness to the events playing out the other side of the barricade. He banged his fist against the transparent confines of the room in indignation.

“You are mistaken Lieutenant, I am not a traitor,” Spock defended, raising his forearm to deflect an aimless punch. He caught the next, twisting Hendorff’s arm behind his back.

“Don’t lie to me,” he seethed. Unperturbed by the angle of his appendage he pushed to straighten it, it gave a blood curdling crack. He didn’t so much as flinch at the fracture.

“Vulcans do not lie,” Spock stated as he knocked the phaser out of the red shirt’s hands. It clattered to the ground and skidded along and out of reach. Both officers clambered after it. Spock was fast. Hendorff was close.

“Hendorff stop!” Jim ordered, dropping to his knees, clammy palms pressed against the glass. He watched helplessly as both men rose to their feet, facing each other like a shoot out in an old western, but with one vital difference: only one party had a weapon. Russian roulette with near certainty of death.

“He’s going to _kill_ you Captain!” Hendorff shouted at Jim who could only look on in horror as he raised the phaser to Spock.


	3. Venienti Occurrite Morbo - Meet the Misfortune as it Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: The first flaskback (which is in italics) has themes of suicidal ideation, that part will be indicted by three asterisks, and the second flashback (also in italics) mentions prostitution, this is also surrounded by three asterisks at the start and end, however I've not added it as a tag as the mention is very brief and not a recurring theme.

_***_

_Spock perched on the balcony of his parents home, dangling his legs into the abyss below. The gentle embrace of copper and rust beams from the sun tingled against his skin. A million tiny hooks anchoring him to the realm of the living. Liquid emerald still lingered on his bottom lip, curtesy of Stonn._

_He mindlessly shuffled closer to the void, gripping the sandstone banister as he pushed his shoulders forward to see further, deeper, into the chasm. The throbbing of the darkness a perfect mimicry of his slowing pulse. Misguided clarity consumed him._

_The sight before T’Pau was profoundly troubling. Witnessing her grandson gather his resolve to put an end to his own existence merely six foot away from her._

_“Spock,” she greeted, speaking as gently as she could, tentatively stepping into the daylight. The rays caught in her hair, reflecting a ring of golden light. Wide eyed he hauled himself up and dismounted the railing, landing with a minute thud. Too afraid that his grim countenance would give away his destructive ideation he stared at the fraying hem of his robes._

_“Minister T’Pau,” he held up a trembling Ta’al, the irony of its meaning didn't escape him._  

 _“What were you doing on the ledge?” she asked, mirroring his gesture. Spock was torn, on one hand Vulcans did not lie, but there was no logical reason one would hurl themselves over a cliff either. A few beats of silence passed between them and Spock still hadn't looked up from the floor._  

 _T’Pau’s next action would have shocked even the least disciplined Vulcan. She struck the boy. As she pulled back to unleash another open palmed assault, Spock looked at her incredulously, her fist collided with his sternum, “M-Minister?”_  

 _It took all of the unwavering Vulcan calm he'd gathered thus far not to let out the sob building in his chest. Pleading eyes rose to meet hers, seeing nothing behind them but the glacial chill of indifference. She placed both of her palms on his chest and forced him sharply backwards, he stumbled, his boots disrupting the pristine layer of settled sand. He raised his hands and replicated the action with admittedly a lot more vigour. She stepped back to steady herself before bringing an arm down on Spock's form. He ducked away, then tried to land his own strike. She caught his balled fist in her own, stilling it in its path._  

 _“You are so ready to end your own life, to forfeit your katra, yet you fight so fervently,” she remarked, releasing his balled hand. Through a lack of shielding practice the young boy’s longing, inadequacy and unmistakable sorrow bled through into her consciousness. It was enough to dizzy the elder._  

 _“I do not undestand.”_  

_“It is illogical to fight if you mean to die later,” she added, raising an eyebrow. Spock relaxed his posture, understanding it was not her intention to hurt him but to ignite a fire in him, a passion and drive to live, “are you familiar with the IDIC principle?”_

***

_“Developed during the ‘Time of Awakening’, Surak, who lead the Vulcan people to enlightenment with logic, developed the belief, Kol-Ut-Shan or infinite diversity in infinite combinations, that progress comes from the unification of the dissimilar,” Spock recited, unperturbed by the non-sequitur._

_“Your heritage is not a shortcoming Spock.”_

_Until the sun bowed out behind the horizon the two of them continued to spar against the backdrop of an autumnal tinted sky. Once he had semi-mastered a few strikes and blocks. T’Pau taught him perhaps the most useful manoeuvre in his arsenal. An evasive move, to dodge oncoming projectiles by dropping to the floor and rolling to the side before extending back into a fighting stance._  

The ghost of T’Pau’s voice echoed in Spock’s mind, resounding like a poignant prayer. _Navorkot._

He steeled his focus on the phaser barrel before him. Waiting. The burn of adrenaline and cortisol reverberated in his system. Jim screamed as Hendorff's finger tightened around the trigger, discharging a bolt of excruciation. 

Each and every tendon and ligament in the Vulcans body constricted, yanking him towards the deck. Coiled up he twisted to the side to watch the phaser fire glide over head towards Jim's cell. He rotated once more before forcing himself up into a raptorial crouch. A spiders web of fractures spread across the panel underneath the Captain’s palms. The tiny threads inched towards the bulkhead, accompanied by the shrill melody of nails down a chalkboard. A final shriek signalled the fragmentization of the glass. 

Hendorff’s figure slackened, his knees smacking against the floor as they buckled, revealing Gaila’s tense form. Her arm hung in the air where she had just unloaded a hypo into the insubordinate officer’s neck.

Well timed as always, Bones came trailing in, nose glued to his PADD. He froze in place, cringing at the sound the shards made under his boots. Perceptibly he took inventory of the situation, cataloguing everyone in the room, then acknowledging the state of the Medbay.

“Jim,”

“Uh… yeah Bones?” he braced himself for a snarky retort. Spock brushed a few stray particulates from Jim's hair, careful not to disrupt the delicate sweep. 

“Less than an hour… I was gone for less than an hour,”

“In his defence Doctor, Hendorff was the one who went berserk,” Gaila interjected as she busied herself with the empty hypospray, letting the residue trickle from one side of the clear compartment to the other. Before he could side with her, Spock's communicator beeped. He turned his back on the bickering pair to answer the hail. 

“Acting Captain Spock, there’s a situation in the mess hall, over”

“Lieutenant Sulu, ‘a situation’ could be interpreted in several ways and is therefore an insufficient indicator, over,” He replied, Jim's eye roll was practically audible. He looked at Spock fondly. This was the Spock he liked the most, the unapologetically Vulcan, but no less 'bitchy' version. That's the thing about Spock, there are these tiny, blink and you'll miss it, sparks of wit and flare. 

“Half of the security garrison and most of the maintenance staff are… rioting sir, over,”

“Received, over and out,” he finished, flipping the communicator closed and locking gaze with Jim, conveying an unspoken message. He and Jim, synchronised as ever, turned to leave.

“Oh no you don’t! We've all been contaminated!” Bones blurted, gesturing to the entire room for emphasis.

“By that logic the entire ventilation system has also been compromised making the appropriate course of action to issue a vessel wide quarantine order, moreover it would appear that whatever contagion you are referring to is already affecting non-landing party crew members, suggesting it is non-communicable,” Spock countered. Bones pinched the bridge of his nose to try and ease some of the building tension behind his eyes.

“Fine, but I’m coming with you too,” he compromised. The doctor unceremoniously pulled the empty hypospray from Gaila's loose grip. He held it up to the light for further examination, “Lieutenant Vro, comm the nurses station and tell them to send somebody to sort out our friend here,” the CMO ordered with a swish of his hand to indicate the red shirts collapsed state. 

“Yes Doctor,”

“Gaila, could you ask someone on duty in the security department to have a look at the security feed, and trace Hendorff’s movements from the moment we beamed back until he arrived here, please,”

“Of course Jim,” she smiled at his phrasing, he never could quite manage to give her an order, always a favor. Probably because he felt he owed her. A debt of dignity, kindness… and quite possibly existence. 

_Jim, barely a shot of synthehol away from black out drunk, staggered out of the seedy establishment he couldn't remember entering. Biting air chilled his skin, caused his head to spin. The hand he threw out to steady himself grazed against the masonry of the building._

_Without warning a shadow swallowed Jim. A tall male towered over him, blocking the bleaching illumination from the streetlight. Betazoid or Terran? Jim couldn't tell._

***

_“200 credits,” proposed the figure._

_“Huh,” Jim grunted, trying to meet the mans eyes._

_“300,” he amended on seeing Jim's face, a lecherous smirk a vice on his lips._

_“I don’t have any credits…”_

_“C’mon baby, what’s your price?” he insisted, throwing an arm around his shoulders, guiding him towards a car parked a few feet away. Jim was accustomed to advances, but not all were as incessant…_

_“Wait, I’m not a—”_

***

_“There you are! I wondered where you went…” a vibrant figure interjected, forcing herself between Jim and the stranger. She synched her thin fingers around his wrist and lead him in the opposite direction and away from the cursing man, she leaned in and spoke lowly into his ear, “Are you alright?”_

_“Do I know you?” he stumbled over his word, the syllables not quite forming right on his tongue._

_“I’m Gaila, we were in Professor Sofaks Xenowilderness Survival class last semester,”_

_“Right right right… thanks,”_

_“No problem,” she mumbled, the corner of her mouth pulling up. Her palm fastened against his side, lending him her balance. By the time they both reached her dorm room Jim had careened to the side twice, almost been sick three times, and somehow managed to scrape both of his palms._

_“This isn't my apartment,”_

_“I know that, this is my place. What number are you in?”_

_“1701,”_

_“That’s the other side of the academy… so I think it’s best to crash here for the night, don't you?”_

_Once through the threshold and into her place he collapsed into an arm chair. Gaila let out a mock exasperated sigh and moved around his haphazard limbs to get to her closet. From it she grabbed a stack of blankets. She layered them on the coach, and peeled back the top layers for Jim to slip inside. The last thing he remembered was sitting obediently on the edge of the seat, kicking off his unlaced combat boots._

_Vibrations from his communicator woke him from his dreamless sleep. Jim always slept best when he was overwhelmed by alcohol (corporeally). It was some of the only nightmare free rest he got._

_Incoming Call From_ Darlin’ _. He cussed under his breath, at no point in last nights haze had he called to let Bones know where he was. He silenced the communicator._

 _Jim glanced down at himself, he pinched his belt and tugged roughly to check its integrity. The belt had been a gift from Bones, it was basically a glorified lock, which_ _would only open when twisted in a specific way. Silently as he could he removed the fabric tangled around his legs and began to pad along the laminate flooring away from the sofa._

_“Not staying for coffee?” Gaila chirped, interrupting his accidental impersonation of a burglar._

_“Uh sure… of course I will,” Jim inwardly cringed hard, biting his lip, making his way over to the bed Gaila was sprawled out on. A verdant goddess. Swallowing thickly he reached for the fastenings of his jeans, allowing them to slip down his legs. Exposed and vulnerable. In one fluid, practised motion his shirt joined his jeans. With one deep breath he secured a leering façade._

_“What in the moons of Vondem are you doing?”_

_“Staying for coffee,” he winked. Springs groaned in protest as he climbed on to the bed. He placed a stinging palm on the comforter either side of her waist._

_“Uh-huh, replicator is over there Casanova,” she snickered, pointing to the kitchenette._

_“You want actual coffee?”_

_“Am I speaking standard?” she deadpanned._

_“…And you don't want me to repay you for last night and letting me sleep in your dorm?”_

_She furrowed her brow at this._

_“Repay me?” Jim bobbed his head, “Um… no thank you?”_

_He sat back on his heels, puzzlement settling in, no one barring Bones had refused him before. “Oh, if you're sure,”_

_“One hundred percent,”_

_“…Then why did you let me stay on your coach?”_

_“Cause you were drunk, I didn't want you to pass out on the sidewalk… or worse,” she shuddered._

_“That is so weird,” Jim muttered. Maybe not everyone wanted something back. Maybe there was a chance that Gaila had done a genuinely nice thing. Maybe, just maybe, she didn't want anything in return._

Jim marched towards the mess hall, Hendorff’s stolen phaser in hand, Spock and Bones in tow. Spock assumed Sulu had exaggerated, as Humans tend to, the dire nature of the status quo. Now looking at the scene himself he couldn't think of a more fitting adverb than 'rioting'. Jim had imagined the room would look more akin to the aftermath of a cliché ‘food-fight’ like something from a late 20th century young adult novel. Not even one of Spock's famously ‘comprehensive’ reports could have prepared the three men for what they were about to see. 

As promised among the many crew scattered over the floor was the security garrison and the maintenance crew. Patches of the linoleum were tacky with blood, mostly vermillion with a few smudges disrupting the chaotic monochrome. Of the approximate forty or so people only a handful were still active, including Lt. Uhura and the chief engineer. 

Again and again the communications officer bludgeoned Scotty with the metal tray she gripped so tightly her knuckles had paled, carpals and metacarpals pulled taught against her skin. Jim and Spock rushed to pull her vertical, Spock taking the brunt of her aggression, keeping Jim out of the direct hit zone. McCoy began an assessment of the scotsman’s condition. Without a tricorder to run over his patient he relied on his eyes and hands. 

“Well he's going to need at least an overnighter in the dermal regenerator, but it seems like it’s all superfluous damage,” he relayed, scrunching up his nose as he inspected another injured crewman, “I can’t say the same for everyone else,”

Uhura thrashed around in the commanding officers’ grasp. After several futile attempts to scratch at the Captain she settled for kicking at Spock's shins. As he seemed content to protect him from most of the blows, Jim slunk away to gain the Doctor's attention.

“Jim, I don’t think the Medbay is equipped for this,” he floundered once he and the Captain were aside.

“I’ll comm Chekov to see if he can plot us a course to the nearest starbase so we can use the medical facilities,” Jim resolved, “but I need to know what to tell the admiralty… they don't like diversions,”

“It’s hard to say what happened here without a toxicology report… or a even a damn tricorder,” he huffed. Jim could only nod as he reached for his communicator. Whilst he opened up a direct channel to the bridge he watched as Spock nerve pinched Uhura to quash her struggling.

“Kirk to Chekov, Chekov I need you to navigate us a route to the closest starba—,” he started, quickly flinching away from the device as a shrieking static came through the speaker, “Chekov please respond,” he tried again. No response, “Kirk to bridge, bridge crew where is Ensign Chekov? Over,”…“Bridge crew, this is Captain Kirk requesting a status report from the bridge."

Spock tugged on Jim's sleeve to get his attention, “Captain…” 

“I can’t get anyone from the bridge on the line,”

“Captain, if you would look out of the window,” Spock urged. 

Jim felt his inside twist up at the view, disbelief stitching itself through him. Yeoman Rand clattered against the glass, her rigid form twitching, thudding. Absolute unadulterated panic metastasized to her swollen features, petrified by the vacuum. Horror set in, a dull ache of anxiety electrifying every fibre in Jim. The same look of dread mirrored in Spock's expression, albeit censored by his Vulcanism.

Dazzling light blinded Jim, spinning transporter beams speeding up, engulfing him. He looked dumbfounded at his hands as the tendrils ensnared him. 

“Spock!” he screamed as he began to dematerialise. He anchored himself to his first officer, crushing his hand in his own. 


	4. Carpe Umbra - Seize the Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a transporter malfunction Kirk is beamed to Rigel. But is he alone?

****In space home comforts are few and far between. Bones’ half bottle of bourbon he hides behind his old medical textbooks, Spock’s spiced incense smouldering by his meditation matt. As for Jim, who wasn't quite sure where he belonged in this universe, he found using the transporter to be a homecoming of sorts.

Vicelike and inescapable a pressure began to build at the base of his skull. Mild to begin with, like the shift in cabin pressure the first time you take a shuttle craft, but quickly becoming a near-paralysing resonation. Oblivion that bled into the peripherals of his vision only managed to exacerbate the insurmountable vertigo.

Distorted rolling chimes rang out. Alarming in their intensity. A disturbing angelic melody. Spinning in the air, legs cycling, arms flailing, he was propelled backwards. Caught in an invisible gravity well he scrambled for purchase against the brittle shale; tiny abrasive grains embedding themselves in his skin, shredding his palms. Friction burned holes in the fabric of his uniform. 

Agonizing reverberations ceased. Slowly, then all at once. The blinding transporter lights released Jim in a seizure of strobing and glitches. 

Jim spluttered, the lingering bitterness of ozone on his skin overwhelmed his senses. Primal instinct drove him to count his appendages. Satisfied that nothing was immediately out of place, he inspected himself more thoroughly. Using splayed fingers he smoothed his shirt down against his abdomen in small brushing motions to dislodge any fine shrapnel from his grazed left side. 

Navy blue thread weaved its way through the sunny tones of his over-shirt. Gently he ran a fingertip across the foreign hue into his command gold and over the grey bands stitched to his cuff, two thick bands: commander. He hitched up his sleeve an inch or so. Pale striations of skin coiled up his arm, a smattering of keloid ridges disrupted the chartreuse.

“Captain,” Jim reeled away from the monotone voice, surveying the immediate environment.

“Spock,” he answered hardly disguising the traces of delight in his voice as he caught sight of his first officer. Spock was also looking a little worse for wear, he was wide eyed and grazed, droplets of jade ran down the side of his face. Jim rocked back on to his haunches before pushing himself up, “We’re on Rigel?”

“It appears we have indeed been beamed to the surface of Rigel X,”

“ _Indeed_ ” Jim rolled his eyes as he grabbed his communicator from his belt. He flipped the flimsy cover off in a smooth practised motion, “Kirk to Enterprise,”

“We read you, Sir,” an unfamiliar voice rang through, images of Uhura in her violent state flickered through Jim’s mind.

“Spock and I have been beamed away from the ship, can you get a lock on our signal to transport us back,”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, the ship is on red alert, all transporter systems are unresponsive, a full reboot has been commissioned by acting chief engineer Riley,”

“Report from the bridge?”

“Unable to open up a communication channel, thermal sensors indicate the bridge has been abandoned,”

“Kirk out.” he huffed, “Spock, engineering say they can’t beam us back as the transporters are being set to default,”

Spock, industrious as ever, had climbed up the steep surface of the valley Kirk was standing in, at the precipice he swayed side to side before finding his balance and righting himself, “With Commander Scott in his current condition I anticipate it will be at least two hours before we return to the Enterprise…”

“Fuck,” Jim groaned, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of being a damsel in distress.

“…also, there is a structure three point three… klicks from our present position,”

“Federation?”

“Unlikely, although the federation does have a foot hold in the area the building appears… improvised,”

“Two hours, huh? Just enough time to search the outpost,” Jim concluded. Spock replied with a curt nod. 

Standard Starfleet issue boots are hard wearing, comfortable even, but definitely not designed with loose gravel terrain in mind. So as the two men began the trek down the steep incline to the distant outpost Kirk could feel his feet slipping every few steps. Soon they both fell in to stride with each other. The backdrop of their current predicament, the Vrantik mountain range, was barren and desaturated, making Spock the only remotely interesting thing for Kirk to look at. Even in a room full of fine Betazoid art Spock would always be the most devastatingly beautiful and captivating site to Jim.

“This is karma for marooning me on Delta Vega,” a shiver rippled over his skin and down his spine as bitter breeze whirled around them. 

“I have apologised per human social convention—,” Spock began. Just then a cairns worth of pebbles gave way under Jim. His back and elbows collided with ground harshly, an undignified grunt escaping him, “Jim! Are you alright?”

“Peachy,” he replied through clenched teeth.

Spock silently extended his arm to pull Jim vertical. That’s when he noticed it, the Captain’s braid, his braid, wrapped neatly around Spock's wrist set off perfectly against an amber web. Instead of taking his arm to erect himself Jim simply stared, wracking his brain to find the words to convey his thoughts to his first.

“Spliced,” Jim whispered. Spock furrowed his eyebrows, confused at the non sequitur. He followed Jim’s line of sight and pulled his arm back simultaneously, honing in on the source of Jim’s astonishment. 

“Jim I do not understand—” Spock cut himself short for a second time as he too underwent the same same revelation Jim had.

“Single stream transportation… I think our codes might have been…” Jim made a vague ‘mixing’ gesture, unable to complete his sentence.

“Parted from me and never parted,” Spock whispered, his tone reverent. Spock was pensive by nature. but somehow he managed to look even more contemplative.

“Forever and always touching and touched,” Jim finished. Spock cast his gaze down ashamedly, embarrassed Jim understood the weight of his words. Vows. 

“May I?” Spock held a subtly trembling hand out, palm up. Jim could only nod in response, unsure of voice. He pressed his fingertips gently against Spock’s, fully aware of the cultural implication. Spock was unsure of what he expected. Nothing? Sparks? 

Warmth, climbed their arms, inching higher, burning hotter with every passing moment, spreading like a wild fire, their hands at the heart of it. It wasn't an unpleasant pain, if such a thing exists. The feeling you've never felt anything so deeply before, and might never again. This wave of bliss crashed over him. The absolute infinite bliss of plural becoming singular. 

Jim felt complete, like a some void within himself had been filled. Not the sort of aching chasm he had come to associate with a loss a couldn't remember, but like a hole he didn't even know was empty. Welcome numbness bloomed beneath his skin, the tempo a hive of bees. The beat became steadier, slower, deeper until it was just Jim and his pulse.

A draught caught the sash window in its frame causing it to shudder, reigniting his senses to the conscious realm. The room, aside from the winds strife battering the corrugated metal skeleton of the building, was silent. Jim shifted his weight enough to swing his feet over the side of the creaking bed. Each of his footsteps' echo seemed to carry down the narrow room. He held his breath, straining himself to listen for any sign of enemy activity.

Tall black pillars filled the room, blinking like an aeroplane in the night sky. Intermittent beeps perturbing the still air. 

Spock, statuesque, sat criss-cross applesauce on the floor facing a computer terminal. Blue text, a mass of vertical lines were falling down the screen in a cascade of lexis. 

“The hell is that?” Jim muttered, half to himself but more than loud enough to startle Spock.

“I appear to have found the source of the disruption to our systems,”

“A virus?” he mused, busying himself with a packet of cigarettes and an old fashioned zippo lighter which barely had enough fluid in it to produce a flame. He balanced the smoke between his lips, a thin grey mist veiling his visage. 

“Most likely, although Gaila will have to identify the function of each of the subroutines,” Spock replied, unable to remove the distaste from his tone as well as he hid it in his expression. Jim took the hint and extinguished the cigarette against the vinyl sideboard to end the scrutiny. 

“How long have we been dirtside?”

“Approximately three hours,”

“So we can beam back— why haven't we beamed back?”

“I would have thought you might have liked to investigate this outpost first,” he provided, “as it is uncertain when our next opportunity to use the transporter system will arise due to the ship wide malfunction,”

“Astute deduction Mr. Spock,” Kirk threw in a tiny smile for good measure, “have you found anything else?”

He shook his head, “We have only been at this outpost for half an hour,”

Jim bobbed his head up and down before turning to search the room for any evidence. This wasn’t his first rodeo, he knew the classic places people stashed things, normally under floorboards or in wall cavities. Seeing as this desolate place had neither he went to the mattress. Using one arm he propped it against the wall so that the underside was facing to room. Several handfuls of the stuffing had been excavated so there was space enough for the suitcase that was concealed there. He yanked the handle and the case was released from the springs keeping it wedged in place. 

The faux leather exterior was ever so slightly scuffed at the edges, but otherwise entirely new. At the opening a small biometric lock was fixed in place. Jim smirked at this, he flipped the case over to expose its hinges. He swivelled his head around, in search of something, anything to open the case. Spock gingerly offered a thin philips screwdriver by the tip, Kirk gripped the handle with as much enthusiasm. Jim lined up the tool with the pin in the hinge and forced it out. Repeating this action, the lid fell open.

The screwdrivers thump was muffled by the stacked carpets as it tumbled from Jim’s slack hand. An act of uncharacteristic carelessness and therefore of concern to Spock. He felt overwhelmed by something unfamiliar, almost nostalgia but far too sour. His own horror was reflected back at him as he observed Jim’s features contort into a bastardisation of pain.

“Jim?” Spock probed. Jim couldn't hear him for the ringing in his ears. Scrawled in a frayed red marker inside the lid was a message.  

VINDICATION, EXONERATION, ABSOLUTION - A.K.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Readers, thank you for reading my fan fiction. This is my first multi chapter story. If you prefer to read fanfic on tumblr you can read mine at https://the-blog-on-the-edge-of-forever.tumblr.com although I will post exactly the same on both. Comments and kudos are great! I try to update regularly, and I plan to have this concluded by late January to early February. LLAP.
> 
> Poster for the work: https://the-blog-on-the-edge-of-forever.tumblr.com/post/177981797159/this-is-the-poster-for-my-fan-fiction-shuttle


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